Chapter 9
I bought shoes in May.
They weren’t the five-hundred-dollar pair.
I chose red-and-black sneakers that cost much less and fit the way I liked.
Dad took me to three stores and never once said I should hurry because the whole mess began with shoes.
At the last store, I held up a pair.
“These.”
He asked whether I was sure.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s check the size.”
I paid part from my savings. Dad paid the rest.
It was ordinary.
That was what made it good.
When we got home, I ran across the yard just to feel them bend.
Mom saw them during our next visit.
“They suit you.”
“Thanks.”
She did not say she could have bought them.
She did not ask whether I liked Dad more because he took me shopping.
We ate lunch and talked about my upcoming birthday.
She wanted to know what kind of cake I liked now.
“Still chocolate.”
“I thought so.”
I was turning twelve.
It felt strange that a whole year of my life could contain the kitchen call, court papers, counseling, two homes, and Maya nearly leaving college.
It also contained science class, basketball with my friends, and the day I finally learned to make pancakes without burning the first three.
I was beginning to remember those things too.
Dad and Mom settled the parenting schedule. I lived mostly with Dad and spent regular time with Mom. Her apartment was smaller than our house, but my room had a desk and a blue blanket I chose myself.
She knocked before coming in.
When she made a mistake about pickup times, she told Dad directly instead of asking me to explain.
When I asked a question about money, she answered what she could and said when she needed to check.
I didn’t trust everything immediately.
I trusted small things one at a time.
Maya came home after exams.
She had completed her second year and received a summer position assisting at a community health center.
We celebrated with dinner at Aunt Renee’s house.
Mom was not there.
Maya wasn’t ready for that kind of gathering with her.
Everyone respected it.
After dinner, Maya and I sat on the porch.
“Do you feel guilty when you have fun with Mom?” she asked.
I nodded.
“A little.”
“You don’t have to for my sake.”
“She hurt you.”
“She did.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
“So how can I like being with her?”
Maya looked at the street.
“Because she’s your mother. Because she can do better things now. Because loving someone doesn’t require pretending the bad things never happened.”
I thought about that.
“Do you hate her?”
“I’m still angry. I don’t spend every day thinking about her.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is.”
She handed me a small wrapped box.
Inside was a key ring shaped like a tiny sneaker.
Red and black.
I laughed.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“A little.”
I put it on my backpack.
When Dad came to pick us up, Maya gave him a letter from her school confirming her scholarship and summer placement.
He read it twice.
Then he hugged her.
“You earned this.”
She held him tightly.
“I’m glad I didn’t leave.”
“So am I.”
I stood beside them and realized there were things nobody had managed to take away.
Maya’s work.
Dad’s promise to show up.
My right to ask questions.
A few weeks later, Ms. Carter confirmed the recovered funds and Mom’s early repayments had restored a substantial part of my education account. Dad and the financial adviser had a plan for the remaining amount, including restitution as it arrived.
He showed me the updated statement.
I looked at Grandpa’s name.
Then mine.
“Can we put this away now?”
Dad smiled.
“Yes.”
He locked the folder in his cabinet.
This time, the key stayed with the person authorized to use it.
That evening, I took my notebook off the shelf.
I read the first page.
I wanted Mom to answer.
I turned to a blank page and wrote about basketball.
Then about Maya’s new job.
May you like
Then about the red-and-black shoes by my bed.
For once, the page wasn’t about something I was afraid of losing.
